Page 29 of The Pumpkin Bride

“You’re right—you’re no scholar. You’re an absolute oaf. It’s spectacularly unwise to provoke someone who’s about to pierce your flesh. As for the meat of what you said . . .” She cleared her throat, then fixed her gaze on his eyes. “You know me not, Jask. If you’d like to learn more about how the betrothal came about, you’ll need to first tell me about your lost love and how you dealt with it. I doubt you will, however. In my experience men don’t enjoy expressing emotions.”

“I’m not a man,” he muttered.

“Saints, you know what I mean.” With one hand, she pushed the wound closed. With the other, she readied the needle. “Do you want me to keep talking? It may help distract you from the task at hand, though I promise I’ll be quick.”

“You still plan to stitch the wound?”

“Yes. I’m petty, but I’m not that petty.”

He was, indeed, an absolute oaf.

“Keep talking.”

She nodded. Concentration tightened her features, and her disarming tenderness loosened something in his chest.

“Here we go,” she said. “Saints guide my hand.”

Bram grunted as the needle pierced his skin. Not as painful as the vinegar, but not how he’d prefer to spend his morning.

“You have parallel lifelines.” Another prick of the needle. “That indicates a person living two paths or two identities.”

His fingers tensed.

She glanced up at him. “Sorry. We’re nearly done.” She returned her gaze to his palm. “Were you not meant to be a farmer, Jask? Were you supposed to join a questing party and seek adventure and steal dragon hoards?”

“Dragons aren’t real,” he countered.

“Why must you squash my whimsy with reality?” She sighed. “Isn’t the world more fun if you imagine there are dragons and unicorns in it?”

He nearly asked if unicorns were still her favorite creature. Instead, he pressed his lips together. She tied off the stitch, then clipped it with her shears.

“There.” Marigold sat back on her heels, then reached for the vinegar. “Five stitches. A final wash, then a poultice of honey and thyme.”

He sucked the air through his teeth. More stinging. And he’d need to add vinegar to the list for Alfred.

“This next part won’t hurt.” She drizzled honey from the pot he kept in the kitchen. Hmph. The pot was low, and it was his last. In the next week or two he’d gather some from the hive in the orchard.

“Now, a little thyme.” She uncorked a small bottle and sprinkled dried herbs on the honey. The peppery herbal aroma filled the air, but she was right—it didn’t hurt. “And clean linen to wrap it.”

She folded a handkerchief into a square, then pressed that to the wound. Next, she wrapped a thin strip around his hand and neatly tucked the end, then secured it with a brass pin from her bag. “There you go. All done.”

He held up his tidily bandaged hand. “Where did you learn to do that?”

“When my true love left me to seek his fortune, I filled my hours to stave off melancholia.” She rolled most of her instruments back up and stashed them in the bag, leaving the needle and scissors on the linen. “I studied medical arts. Geography, alchemy, beekeeping, gardening—things like that. I was always in the castle’s library or conservatory.”

Ah, that was why she’d paled.

“I thought princesses only studied etiquette and protocol.”

“Don’t forget embroidery.” She winked at him.

He coughed to disguise the laugh rumbling in his chest. As she finished organizing her equipment, he drank in the picture she made. Her exterior was the same, but she’d changed since they’d parted five years ago. Compared to his memory, this Marigold was more confident and less prone to dramatic fits.

“You surprise me,” he said.

“And you, me. Isn’t it delightful to be surprised by a person?” She surged to her feet, then dusted her hand together. “If orcs heal similarly to humans, your hand should be as good as new in ten to fourteen days. Until then, I wouldn’t use it too much, or you risk popping the stitches and reopening the wound. Looks like you’re stuck with me for the next fortnight.”

He’d never survive it.